Drake's Lair (11 page)

Ellery insisted upon driving. He chose a well-appointed landau, which offered more protection than the other two-seater rigs in the carriage house. Melly wasn’t too happy about that. She would have preferred to walk, though it was a distance, and the weather was still unstable. The last thing she wanted was to be alone with the steward. She couldn’t explain it, but some ingrained feminine instinct warned against it. Nonetheless, by midmorning, they were tooling along the highway at a steady pace with the wind at their back toward what remained of her cottage.

They reached the vale by noon, and her heart sank at sight of what once had been her home, now a blackened heap of slag and cinder. Only the chimney still stood, like a soldier at attention. The closer they came, the stronger the sour stench of burnt wood and char became. It flared her nostrils, and should have warned her away, but she was determined, insisting to get down for a closer inspection.

“You will spoil your fine dress,” Ellery warned. “You’ll never get the stink out.”

“It is not my dress,” she corrected, looking down at the white muslin frock and blue spencer she’d chosen for the outing.

“I believe you can consider it so now,” he said. “It becomes you far more elegantly than it did its former owner, I might add. White did not suit her.”

“What was she like, Mr. Ellery… the countess?” she wondered. She had been avoiding asking that question. For some reason, she really didn’t want a mental picture of Lady Shelldrake, yet curiosity, which she’d begun to recognize as her most grievous fault, got the better of her as usual.

“Eva? She was… magnificent,” he replied. “All manners and breeding, like one of Drake’s Andalusians. She was the catch of the Season when Drake latched onto her. Have you never seen her portrait in the library?”

“No, I haven’t had occasion to visit the library,” she said.

“Well, if you’re curious, go and have a look. The artist captured her utterly.”

Of course she would. That dratted curiosity again. But it carried a price. Like it or not, it mattered that Lady Shelldrake was magnificent. It mattered that she was the catch of the Season. It mattered that Drake had provided her with a wardrobe of the finest quality. It mattered that he loved her so that he nearly went mad when she died—mad enough to drive himself headlong into battle until he’d nearly died and joined her. It mattered more than she cared to admit.

“Soon I shall have my own wardrobe,” she said, slapping at the skirt of her frock cruelly.

“Come, then, since you’re so determined,” Ellery conceded. Exiting the coach, he tethered the horse to the hedgerow beside the stacked stone fence, and helped her down.

His hand lingered just a trifle too long, and she pulled hers away. Shielding her eyes from the wind, which had blown her bonnet back, she looked in dismay at the ravages of the fire.

“Who could have done such a thing?” she said absently, as though to herself.

“Well, my dear, people do call you a witch after all. You know how superstitious Cornishmen are. It could have been anyone, or…”

“Or, what?” she prompted as his voice trailed off.

“Nothing. What did Drake say, exactly?”

“He said that the fire was set deliberately. He said he saw the culprit—that was his word, ‘culprit’—fleeing as he approached, but that it was too dark to see who it was, and saving me took precedence over running the man to ground.”

“Ummmmm,” Ellery hummed thoughtfully.

“What?”

“Nothing, I’m just trying to picture it. He never mentioned any of this to me.”

“Does he tell you everything, then?”

“He used to. Once we were joined at the hip, so to speak. We shared… everything, just like brothers. Evidently no longer.”

There was disappointment in his voice, and she almost responded to it, but opted for a closer look at the remains of the cottage instead.

“No, my dear,” said the steward, restraining her with a quick hand on her arm. “It isn’t safe.

She stared down at the gripping fingers then met his eyes in a manner that told him unequivocally to remove the hand. Still she had to wrench her arm away. When she did so, he ranged himself in her path.

“I am hardly a child in leading strings, Mr. Ellery,” she said haughtily. “I assure you I’ve trod upon worse. Please stand aside.”

“I am responsible for your safety while Drake is away,” he reminded her, still hovering.

“I, sir, am responsible for my own safety,” she snapped. “I need neither you, nor his lordship for that, I assure you.”

“I shall remind you of that one day, my dear,” he said stoically.

Something in the crusty, almost sinister, tone that delivered those words sent cold chills racing along Melly’s spine. They puckered her scalp and almost tampered with her balance, or was that the gale? It had billowed her skirt like a sail, and more than once she’d taken it back from the wind, climbing over the debris and into the burned-out shell of the cottage, with Ellery following along like a puppy at her heels.

Her eyes flitted over the slag where the floor had been, seeking the place beneath the boards, where she’d hidden the notes she’d put by. But there were no boards—there was no floor. Gone—all gone. Just as she knew they would be, though she’d hoped. If only there was something left, she wouldn’t need the Earl of Shelldrake’s hospitality or his money or his… anything. Her posture collapsed in spite of her resolve to steel herself against exposing her innermost feeling to this man hovering at her elbow.

“You see?” he said. “I told you. There is nothing here but sadness. Please let me take you away. I can’t bear the tears I see in your eyes.”

“‘Tis the wind,” she defended, though that was a lie, and it wasn’t the sad, blackened remains of her home that made her eyes tear, either. It was the memory of the strong arms that had held her there, of his provocative male scent, and the unexpected event of his arousal pressed against her through the thin gauze nightdress.

“Demelza?” the steward murmured. “May I please take the liberty of calling you ‘Demelza’? We have, after all, been acquainted for nearly a year now, and I hope we are friends.”

She stared at him.
Who was this man?
She scarcely knew.
What was he saying?
It hardly mattered. But she still had her agenda, and she reacted accordingly.

“If you wish,” she said absently. “I’ve seen enough here.”

“Thank God!” he muttered in a low voice. She didn’t reply. Allowing him to take her arm, she let him lead her back over the blackened boards and cinder to the landau.

They stopped at the Terrill croft, and shared their nuncheon of black bread with freshly churned butter, and potage made from the farm’s produce. Melly had shared similar meals with the Terrills many times in the past, and found it just as delightful as the sumptuous fare at Drakes Lair. Afterward, the steward disappeared for a time with Will Terrill to inspect the repairs, leaving her alone with Bessie and the children, where she recounted in great detail her narrow escape from the fire, and daring rescue, which had cost the earl his queue. When she concluded, Bessie sent the children out to play. So long confined, they’d become restless, and they could scarcely hear each other for the racket they were making in the cramped, two-room cottage.

“‘Tis a wonder you’re alive,” Bessie remarked. “A miracle his lordship was passing by at that hour. He was here ‘till quite late, you know, sleeves rolled up, scrambling around on that roof, tying off thatch, and hammering with the best of them; ‘twas a shock, to be sure, seeing him doing menial work the likes o’ that. He’s a good sort, his lordship is—better’n most, and that’s a fact, Miss Melly.”

“I find him rather… strange,” she confessed.

“How so, miss?”

“For one thing, his reaction to my gathering herbs down by the beck on Drake’s Lair, his… total inflexibility about it. It was quite bizarre. Why, he plans to root out every botanical on the place. Might you know why?”

“No, miss,” Bessie returned. “I know Lady Eva used to have an herb garden. Your cousin showed her how, give her a book and all, so she could make her own beauty ointments and toilet waters.”

“Cousin Calliope?” Melly blurted. “She never told me.” She wondered if the toiletries on her dressing room vanity were some of the countess’s concoctions, and made a mental note to study them more closely when she returned. She would know.

“That was long before you come here, Miss Melly—six, maybe even seven years ago, it was. By time you came, Miss Calliope was getting a mite forgetful.”

“Did his lordship know?”

“Oh, I dunno’, miss, you know how the ‘ristocrats are, they dance to their own pipers—lead separate lives. His lordship wasn’t here much back then. He came and went; we rarely saw him. The countess probably took up herbs to pass the time o’ day, when she wasn’t flitting off to London with him for the Seasons. She went to Town for the big and little Seasons you know. His lordship has a fine townhouse in Mayfair. I don’t think she visited with Miss Calliope regular like, ‘twas just the once, she told me, and she was right proud for having instructed the countess herself.”

“And you don’t know why his lordship should be so overset about my gathering—about herbs in general, actually.”

“Maybe it brings back sad memories for him. I know how bad he was when she died miscarrying his heir. ‘Twas dreadful, miss. He went clean off his head, then up and disappeared before the vicar ever got them in the crypt. We didn’t know what become of him ‘till the letters started coming to Mr. Ellery and he put us at all ease. Then all at once he stopped writing altogether, and we thought sure we’d lost him.”

“He must have loved her very much,” Melly said dismally.

“Yes, miss, he was wretched, he was—a regular Bedlamite when she passed.”

Just then, Ellery’s dark shape in the doorway blocking what sun the clouds begrudged, turned her attention.
How much had he heard?

“Well,” she said buoyantly, “It’s been such a pleasant visit, Bessie, and the nuncheon was a delight. I doubt I’ll be able to manage dinner after such fare.”

“‘Twas nothing, Miss Melly,” Bessie returned. “If I’d known you was coming, I’d have done it up fancy.”

“No need,” she replied. “We’ve never needed ‘fancy’, you and I.”

“But you’re the fine lady now, all dressed up proper, living up to the big manor house and all.”

“Temporarily,” Melly pointed out. “We may be neighbors again sooner than you know. But that’s a tale for another time. Now then, if I can persuade Mr. Ellery here to sacrifice a jot more of his precious time, I’d like to pay a visit to the Tinkers’ camp.”

“Oh, I doubt they’ve come outa’ the woods yet,” said Bessie. “They went deep in, like they always do when the flaws come, where the trees are sturdy and too close together to come down on them. Those winds would toss their wagons about like broom straws.”

“Well, we shall see, shan’t we? Mr. Ellery?” she said coyly. Taking his arm, she said her farewells to Will and the girls, and they took their leave.

The steward’s annoyance over the unscheduled side trip showed plainly in his pleated brow and tight-lipped scowl. Melly ignored him. Though she’d convinced herself that she didn’t believe a word, she was secretly hoping Rosen would be able to shed more light on the cryptic prophesy. But as Bessie predicted, the Tinkers hadn’t returned to their usual campground in the meadow, and after a brief stop at the coaching station to inquire about the earl’s horses, which still had not arrived, they returned to Drakes Lair in time to dress for dinner.

*

Melly walked her fingers through the clothes in the armoire. She was trying to decide upon a frock to wear downstairs that evening. Zoe and Mrs. Laity had finished hemming the rest of the gowns, and one was lovelier than the next, but why were all the necklines so low? She wanted to extract information, not seduce the man. Thank the stars the housekeeper had the presence of mind not to discard the excess fabric. She had finished off several pieces as inserts for her, and Melly finally settled on a white sprigged muslin frock, with a bit of crocheted lace from one of the more formal gowns crisscrossed under the bodice to fill in the décolleté. Once Zoe dressed her hair in a tight chignon framed in the inevitable tendrils, she hurried below.

It was too early to join James Ellery in the drawing room for sherry. She had planned it that way. Though she was dreading it, she wanted to have a look at the countess’s portrait in the library. Only one branch of candles was lit in the spacious room. It stood on a pier table beside the lounge. It was enough. The room smelled of leather—expensive leather—and lemon polish. The walls were lined with books everywhere, except for the space about the massive hearth, where marble wood nymphs stood holding up the mantle, pointing upward to the portrait of Eva Hannaford, Lady Shelldrake in all her resplendent glory.

Melly’s breath caught. Looking vacantly into space, though her eyes seemed to follow the observer eerily, the countess stood statuesque and regal beside a column topped with an urn overflowing with peach-colored roses. One of her delicate gloved hands was caressing a bloom; the other held a fan. Her high-waisted gown matched the roses exactly. It appeared to be made of silk, with a delicate tulle overlay, exquisite with her short, dark ringlets and peaches-and-cream complexion. She was the most exquisite creature Melly had ever seen.

She misted. The earl hadn’t given her that gown with the rest. It wouldn’t have become her anyway—not with her mousy brown hair and eyes that were so close in color she had always thought God lacked imagination. She wasn’t regal, and she certainly wasn’t statuesque, Zoe and Mrs. Laity could attest to that, what with all the hemming. She despised her hopeless curls—that tangled tumble of wayward ringlets just long enough to be out of fashion. Even now the deuced tendrils crept out of her chignon and tickled her face. Absently she reached to touch them. There was no hope for it. She would never be regal. Dowdy better described her. Aristocrat though she was, she would always be quite ordinary—mousy even. It was better in buttoned-up gray twill. She no more belonged in sprigged muslin than she would have in the gown in the portrait—the gown that Drake had omitted. Even he knew it.